Fallout:The Last Best Place
by Rusting King
Summary: When the Great War broke out in 2077, and the United States was scarred by nuclear fire, Montana was spared a majority of the devastation. Now, it's the year 2298, and Montana has been, for the most part, unaffected by the major events of the last two centuries. But the Wasteland is a place of endless stories, and the story of the Central Wasteland is about to begin. [DISCONTINUED]
1. Prologue

The wind blew harshly across the jagged stone rocks, and the dead soil which covered a landscape of hills, pathways, and unstable ground. Its loud hum poured through the wasteland and echoed into a deep, endlessly stretching crater.

Far off into the distance, on the crater's edge, a large collection of derelict buildings stood together. The buildings sat on a slope leaning slightly inwards toward the crater. At the edge, various broken buildings and concrete ground hung over the crater, waiting to join the others that had no doubt fallen in previously. Despite their damage, the buildings that had once been the largest city in what had once been the state of Montana stood sturdy against the various forces which should've torn it down.

In the pre-war city of Billings, the sounds of explosions and gunfire managed to be heard over the howls of the wind. The sounds were heard all the way from the city, to the hills that dotted along the pathway to it.

"How the hell can they still fight in this goddamn weather!?" A mechanical, but hoarse voice shouted over the radio. "Is killing each other really so important that the calm before the goddamn storm should be ignored!?"

"I think that's exactly why they're still giving each other hell over there." Another equally mechanical voice responded dryly. "I mean, I doubt a storm's actually coming, but generally speaking the death of one or both your enemies is higher up on the agenda than whether it's gonna rain or not." It added with amusement.

"I wasn't referring to an actual storm." The raspy voice responded, his annoyance obvious.

"I know." The other voice replied, it's increased cheerfulness unhidden by its robotic vocals.

A raspy sigh sounded over the radio, louder than the last.

"But what were you referring to when you used it?" The cheerful voice asked.

After a moment, the raspy voice explained: "If they keep trying to kill each other, then they'll eventually weaken the city enough to the point where wind like this is all it will take to send it down below, if they haven't already done it themselves at that point."

"You're very concerned about their safety aren't you?" The other voice said, his tone dry once again.

Before the raspy voice could retort, another interrupted: "As fascinating as it is to hear you discuss how the city will fall, I'm afraid I have to remind both of you that this channel shouldn't be in use during an ambush!" The new, effeminate voice shouted in exasperation.

A long silence fell over the radio, before the cheerful voice asked: "Then why didn't you speak up when he started talking?"

Silence again, followed by the low growling of the effeminate voice. However, rather than an ear-piercing scream, another, calmer voice spoke.

"Please calm down, all of you." The moment the words were spoken, the channel became quiet to seem as if nothing had ever been said. "Thank you, I understand that this sort of thing can become… exhausting after awhile, believe me." The voice chuckled slightly, but retained his calm tone, the similar mechanical echo only strengthening it. "But we're still on a mission, and as such we all need to focus on the task at hand, that means only use the radio when we need to. That means no remarks, no questions, and no shouting, unless it's for the mission, or after the mission, understood?"

As if on cue, a group emerged from behind a mound, following a path between the hills where the owners of the voices lay prone.

"Well then, guess we can use it." The calm voice said with a bit of subdued amusement. "How many are there?"

A moment passed. "I count thirteen, ten armbands, three slaves, one brahmin." The formerly cheerful voice stated. "Looks like they needed help carrying the extra equipment." He remarked with resentment.

"Don't worry, we'll get them in a minute." The effeminate voice reassured softly.

"That's right." Agreed the calm voice. " What are they carrying?".

A raspy "hm" sounded over the radio, followed by: "Their all wearing leather armor, a few have backpacks." Another "hm". "Five of them are carrying lever-action rifles, three have hunting rifles, the last two have shotguns, both double-barrel."

"So basically jack shit." The resentful voice said, chuckling darkly.

"And the slaves?" The calm voice asked.

"As well dressed as a slave of theirs would be." The raspy voice replied, his pity unhidden.

Silence followed once again, as they watched the group advance along the path. Finally, the calm voice spoke up.

"We do this quickly, and accurately. Leave one of the double-barrels alive, he's got the red band."

The other voices uttered their approval, and waited.

* * *

The group walked between the hills, the soldiers lifting their blue armband fitted arms in an attempt to block the wind while the slaves shivered. They had tied them to the brahmin and let it drag them across the wasteland, causing even more damage to their already infected feet. The group would've dragged the slaves themselves, but they were heading to the _Cliffside City_ , they needed to be absolutely focused, and that meant allowing the mutated beast to do their job for them.

Better than using those damned pre-war collars.

The man closest to the brahmin, possessing a shotgun and a red armband signifying his rank shouted over the wind: "Can you see it!?"

"Yeah, it's still far, but it's there!" Shouted a woman at the front, hand pressing a straw cowboy hat to her head.

"Do they really need reinforcements, I think we're the third group this month!?" Inquired one of the others.

"If they need help, then they need help. I'll be damned if I leave our fellow men to die to those scum!" The leader replied, louder and angrier.

"I know sir, it's just that I'm starting to worry that with how things are, we're using up to many men at once-"

The soldier was cut off when his head exploded into red mist along with three others. Blood and pieces of brain matter covered the ground and some remaining soldiers as the four bodies fell.

"What the fuck-!" Another soldier tried to scream, before his skull caved in as another bullet made its way into four more soldiers.

"Form up, find them and-!" The leader's scream turned into one of blood-curdling pain as his leg snapped backwards from the impact of yet another bullet, forcing him to the ground as the remaining soldiers' heads exploded, coating the dead soil with blood.

The leader curled against the ground, grasping his leg and grimacing in pain. His eyes only opened as he heard several footsteps from all directions.

* * *

The four owners of the voices got up, and walked down their respective hills to the path occupied by headless or nearly headless corpses and their squirming leader.

Each wore a full suit of green and black tactical combat armor covered by dusters, complete with helmets with built-in respirators and Pip-Boys around their wrists. They all held pristine anti-material rifles.

A sight completely out of place in the wasteland.

"Well that was easy." The one with the raspy voice stated, disappointed.

"Did you want them to shoot back?" The effeminate one asked.

He shook his head. "No, I just hoped they would've at least made a run for it."

"Well that's vats for you." The cheerful one stated. "I for one am glad we managed to rid the world of these bastards."

"As am I… but I have to agree, it's too easy sometimes." The calm one said.

"Everything's easy for you kid." The raspy one stated, shaking his head.

"I can assure you that isn't true." The calm one managed to say before a loud boom filled the air and the calm one shot forward, nearly falling to the ground.

Quickly straightening, he looked back to see the leader with the red armband pointing his shotgun at him. Surprise crossed the man's face as he pulled the trigger, letting loose another round of 12-gauge into the calm one's torso. He stumbled backwards, but straightened himself again, unharmed except for a dent in his armor.

Rather than shocked, the calm one saw a look of pure hatred on the leader's face. Looking away, the calm one spotted the three slaves cowering behind the dead brahmin (The cheerful one had shot it).

The calm one turned to the cheerful one, and motioned towards the slaves. Nodding, the cheerful one holstered his anti-material and made his way towards them, kicking the shotgun from the leader's grasp as he passed.

As the cheerful one took care of the slaves, the calm one motioned towards the leader. Within seconds, the other two holstered their own anti-materials, grabbed the man by the arms, and lifted him off the ground and to his knees, ignoring his cries of pain. However, after his cries ceased, the leader did something that surprised everyone but the calm one.

He began to laugh.

The raspy one, and the effeminate one shared a glance, while the cheerful one looked over. The calm one only holstered his rifle, and began to operate on his Pip-Boy.

"Find something funny?" He asked, staring at his wrist.

The man began to speak amidst his laughter. "Yeah… you guys are really funny. Sitting on those hills, killing my men, surviving those shotgun rounds, yeah… you assholes are still dependent on the old world aren't cha.

The calm one tilted his head, but his gaze remained on his wrist. "Dependent?"

"Yeah, even after all this time, people like you exist, people who continue to use the tools that almost destroyed us. You fuckers just can't move on can you!?" The leader screamed. "Even after two hundred years, here you are, still enslaved by the old world!"

The calm one raised his head, his helmets black visor meeting the leader's burning eyes. "Enslaved, huh. You mean like them." He said, pointing to the slaves, now untied and being comforted by the cheerful one.

The leader scoffed. "Those aren't slaves, those are prisoners. They were offered the chance to be a part of something amazing, to be independent and live without fear, but they spat in our faces and chose to be dependent dogs! So we fulfilled our duty as free men and brought them under control before they spread their bias further. We can help them be free, but you, you don't deserve freedom! You deserve to be wiped from the earth!"

The calm one stared at the hyperventilating leader for a long time, before replying: "I see… well I can agree with some of what you said, but everything else is bullshit."

The man's eyes hardened with fury, but the calm one continued: "Technology certainly did destroy the world, and it certainly can be used to do that again." He said solemnly. "But you see, that only depends on who uses it."

The calm one grasped the sides of his helmet, twisted, and pulled it off. The face of a young man with long, dirty white hair and brown eyes so dark the leader mistook them for black.

His appearance made the leader sneer. "A slave _and_ a junkie, huh?"

The young man shook his head. "No, that's it's natural color, I don't know why but it is." His voice was clearer without respirator of the helmet. "But more importantly-" The young man placed the helmet on the ground and walked in front of the leader and knelt to meet his eyes. "This is the face of someone who won't make the same mistakes of the past."

The leader's eyes narrowed. "You're a fucking kid."

The young man smiled slightly. "Yet here I am after ordering the deaths of all your men." He reached into his duster. "And now I'm going to fulfill my duty and prevent people like you from going out of control."

From inside the duster, the young man pulled a small, strange box-looking machine. He held it by a hilt which had two buttons where his thumb was located, and an orange wire that went from the front of the machine to the back. Still smiling, he raised it in front of the leader's face.

Before the leader could react, the young man pressed down his thumb and a blue light flashed.

When he lowered the machine, a change in the leader was immediately recognizable.

His head hung loosely to one side, his shoulders slouched, and his mouth hung agape. He looked in all directions, his expression confused, and his eyes tired.

Packing away the machine, the young man asked as clearly as possible: "Why were you being sent to the Cliffside City."

The leader looked up, and struggled to answer. "Ummm… we got a message saying that… the group we sent in needed reinforcements… at Flint's Place.

The young man looked to the effeminate one, who shrugged. Looking back at the confused leader, he then asked: "Where's Flint's Place."

Again, the leader struggled, but managed to reply. "It's… by the old highway… two-twelve I think… "

Satisfied, the young man motioned for the two to let the leader go. After they did, he reached out and pulled the red armband from the man's bicep. He then asked a final question: "What do you want in the city?"

Unlike the last couple times, the leader answered immediately: "I don't know."

Narrowing his eyes slightly, the young man sighed and stood up. Taking out a knife, he wrapped the red armband around its hilt and made his way towards the cheerful one and the slaves.

A woman with dark skin currently had her arms wrapped around the cheerful one's body, and was sobbing quietly into his chest. In an attempt to comfort her, the cheerful one and the other two slaves gently rubbed her back, shoulders, and arms.

When the young man approached, the cheerful one tore his gaze from the woman to see the knife being held out to him. "He's going to snap out of it in a minute, figured you should do the honors."

The cheerful one looked up at the calm one's exposed face and smiled in gratitude. "Thanks." He took the knife and stared at it for a minute, then gently pulled the woman to her feet. Softly whispering to her, he led them to the leader, who had begun to awaken from his trance.

The calm one quietly watched, his hair flapping wildly in the wind, as the cheerful one handed the knife to the woman, and after only a few whispered encouragements and reassurances, the woman raised the knife and began wildly stabbing and slashing the leader.

The sounds of his screams managed to be heard over the woman's shrieks of rage.

After looting some of the bodies, the raspy voiced one came and stood next to the calm one. He removed his helmet, revealing the flayed, corpse-like face typical of ghouls. "What now?"

The calm one breathed deeply and exhaled. "Give the slaves as much time as they need to calm down, then call Ross and tell him to pick us up at the extraction point. We'll discuss our next move when we're back."

The ghoul raised his eyebrow and stared at the calm one.

"What?" The young man asked.

"Is the mission over?" The ghoul asked, deliberately serious.

The young man stared back, before chuckling mildly. "Don't worry it's over."

The ghoul smirked and put his helmet back on. "I'll make the call now, ready when you are kid."

As the ghoul walked off, the young man looked to the corpses around him and frowned.

These people would definitely be the first to go.


	2. Drifter

Footsteps on concrete and the occasional gust of wind were the only noticeable sounds as a Drifter made his way across the road. The road itself was extremely dilapidated. Weeds stuck out from cracks, and the normally black rock had faded immensely after a couple hundred years. Both were of no concern to the Drifter, who kept his gaze forward as another gust caused his dirty brown hair to flow wildly.

The Drifter was armed with an old hunting rifle and clad in full leather armor with a backpack slung over his shoulder. The rifle looked as if it could fall apart at any moment and the armor did nothing to protect him from the wind brought. Shivering, he quickened his pace. However, hours of walking, dehydration, and hunger had taken their toll, and within minutes the Drifter stood shaking in the middle of the road, breaths ragged and his vision blurring.

Struggling to stay upright, the Drifter sinks down to one knee. Setting down the rifle with a weak hand, he slowly slips the backpack from his shoulder and lets it fall to the ground. Opening it, his hand immediately dives in, rummaging frantically as if his life depended on the discovery of his goal, which it surely did. Finally, his hand grasped its target. The Drifter sighed in relief and retracted his hand.

In it was an empty bottle.

The Drifter looked at the bottle for the longest time, as if expected the emptiness of it to be a trick of the light. The sun was covered by the clouds however, and the Drifter was well aware of what he held. Without a word, he dropped the bottle. A low, plastic hum reached his ears when the bottle hit the concrete. Sighing, the Drifter closes the backpack and shakily puts in on. He reaches for the rifle, but stops as his hand closes around it.

The strumming of a guitar fills the air.

The Drifter stands, the rifle grasped loosely in his hand. Despite his disbelief, he begins a slow walk towards the source of the melody. Slowly, but surely, several small structures become visible as the melody increases volume. The Drifter approaches them and discovers that rather than structures, there are dozens, if not hundred of simple slabs of stone protruding into the soil. He steps off the road and inspects the closest one. The slab is ancient, but the words inscribed are still legible.

 _Shane Asher Edwards. May 12, 2057 - July 18, 2075. Born a schmuck, died a hero._

The Drifter's eyes go from right to left as he reads. The briefest hint of a smile reaches his face at the epitaph, but disappears as soon as it arrived. Getting to his feet, he continues through the ancient cemetery towards the melody. As the music becomes louder, the number of gravestones increases. The Drifter looks at each one as he passes. Some are broken and illegible, others intact and worn, most are gone, buried under the soil. His focus only returns to the strumming when he stands directly in front of its source.

An Asian, mustached man in a dull, brown duster sits at the base of a dead, leafless tree with a guitar in his arms. The man stares at the Drifter from underneath a grey cowboy hat and promptly stops his strumming. The two stare at each other in what is to them an indeterminate number of time, when in reality only seconds pass. Finally, the stranger gives the Drifter a small smile.

"Ain't used to hearing music out in these parts, huh?" he says calmly.

The Drifter doesn't reply, but tightens his grip on his rifle and tenses up when the stranger moves. The stranger quickly holds up one hand. "Just putting it down, friend," he reassures. The tension doesn't leave the Drifter, but he nods slightly. Smiling again, the stranger gently places the guitar next to him and props it against the tree before turning back. "Sorry if I alarmed you, partner, I mean no harm to you if mean none to me."

Taking a moment to consider his words, the Drifter relaxes and lowers his rifle. "It's okay, I'm just a little… exhausted is all." The stranger raises his eyebrow. "I'll reckon, you look like you're just about ready to keel over and pass on to the other side." The Drifter only shrugs. "You're not exactly wrong."

Graciously taking off his backpack, the young man sits down, his rifle across his lap. "So, who're you supposed to be?"

"Just a drifter making his way back home," the stranger replies. "What about you, friend." The Drifter shrugs again. "I'm a Drifter too, I guess. I've been trying to find a town or a caravan for the past few days," he says as he opens the backpack. " I don't suppose you could point me in the right direction?"

The stranger smiles and points down the road. "Just follow the road and after three or so miles, you should arrive at the next town," he says. "Cahill, can't miss it."

The Drifter nods and takes a roll of duct tape from the backpack. The stranger closely watches the young man wrap several pieces around the rifle, attempting to keep it together before asking. "Why are you out here anyway. If you don't mind me asking?" The Drifter's gaze briefly falls to ground, before coming up again. "Why are you here?" The stranger stares blankly at the Drifter for a moment, more intrigued than confused by the young man's deflection.

"Well, a good few years ago I went west to look for someone," He says with a hint of regret. "But, someone made me realize that my search was pointless. So I got a job and I settled down for a few years." The Drifter raises an eyebrow. 'Why come back then?" Smiling with a combination of amusement and pain. "Because I didn't belong there. If I'm gonna be honest I've never felt like I belonged anywhere."

A look of solemn understanding crosses the young man's features. Intrigued further, the stranger speaks further. "This guitar here is the only thing here that I've ever felt connected with." Picking it up, the stranger looks upon the instrument fondly, despite the subtle venom that laces his next words. "It was the only thing my pa ever left me." The Drifter's eyes widened a bit at the strangers sentence.

"So… I suppose the reason I'm heading back home is cause, I believe it's the closest thing to home I have." He continued "And that's better than no home at all in my book." The Drifter was silent, shaking even, but the stranger can tell it's not from the cold.

He hesitates for a moment, but asks the young man once more. "Why are you out here, friend?"

For a long moment the Drifter says nothing. During that time his body tenses again, his hands clench, and his breathing becomes shaky. The stranger understands and is about to apologize, but is cut off by the Drifter's quiet reply. "Because I don't have anywhere to go."

The stranger's eyes soften, his mouth turning to a frown, empathy covers his face. "I'm mighty sorry to hear that friend. Like I said I don't mean to cause you harm." The Drifter only nods several times. "It's okay, I just hate saying that out in the open," he manages to mutter. The stranger nods and turns and begins to gather up his things.

The Drifter stares at the ground, barely managing to hold several, different emotions inside. Anger, sadness, fear, hatred, _self-hatred_ all threaten to break out. His thoughts are soon quelled by the sight of a bottle of Nuka-Cola and a can of Pork n' Beans are laid out at his feet.

He looks up to meet the friendly expression of the stranger's face. He has his guitar tucked under one arm and a duffle bag around his shoulder. "We can't have you keeling over before you get to Cahill," he states.

The Drifter doesn't reply, but the combination of shock, relief, and gratitude on his face communicate for him. The stranger smiles one final time before he turns. "Catch you later Drifter. I hope whatever you're looking for, you can find it." With that, the man begins a steady walk through the cemetery to the open plains of the wastes.

As he watches, a small smile crosses the Drifter's face. "Hope you do too, stranger!". The stranger replies with a small wave of his hand and soon disappears into the wastes beyond.

After several minutes of looking in the stranger's direction, the young man gathers his bearings and items and stumbles to his feet. Making his way back to the road, the Drifter twists off the of cap of the Nuka-Cola and pockets it.

With one final look at the cemetery, the Drifter looks forward and resumes his trek.

Footsteps on concrete, the occasional gust of wind, and the consumption of a drink were the only noticeable sounds as he made his way across the Central Wasteland.

 **(Author's Note)**

Well here it is, and i'm still trying to figure out whether or not I failed at the introduction.

This is my first story on here, and as such if you have any constructive criticism or thoughts, they'd be greatly appreciated.

No idea when the next chapter will be out, but hopefully it won't be a long wait.


	3. Negligence

The Drifter walked along the ancient road in a self-reprimanding state of mind.

The reasons for this were numerous. Firstly, he had been walking too long and too far, easily past three miles by that point in time. It seemed that the stranger had either miscalculated, forgot how truly far away Cahill actually was, or deliberately misinformed him.

That led to the second reason; the Drifter had been far too trusting of the man with the guitar. To lower his weapon and sit in front of the stranger was one thing, but to nearly break down in front of him, absolutely idiotic. The stranger could have easily been a decently dressed raider, or even worse: a slaver. But the Drifter simply couldn't entirely trust that thought, the man has never reached for a weapon, talked calmly with him, and had even given him food and Nuka-Cola and directions to the nearest settlement. The young man knew the dangers of such thinking, but no matter how he viewed it, the stranger truly meant him no harm.

Speaking of food and water, reason three: his Nuka-Cola was gone and his Pork n' Beans was already halfway empty. The Drifter had drank the entire bottle before he even reached the three mile mark (idiotic) and was now once again suffering from near-crippling thirst.

He had handled the Pork n' Beans with more common sense. Instead of eating it all at once, he had been steadily rationing it, taking a few bites every mile. However, the fact that the can was half-way empty meant one thing: he had been walked enough miles to get to the halfway point when he had been eating only a few bottle cap sized scraps, but Cahill was still nowhere in sight.

The Drifter sighed, his train of thought abruptly cut off by another gust of wind. He immediately added neglecting to wear armor with proper protection against the elements to his ever-growing list. He would of also added neglecting to bring better supplies as well, but he immediately shook his head to halt that thought. The Drifter didn't need, nor want that thought to become a trip down memory lane, he had enough to deal with at the moment without mulling over the recent past.

Sighing again, the Drifter diverted his attention to his surroundings. The Nuka-Cola and Pork n' Beans had at brought him back to an at least somewhat stable physical condition minus the thirst and cold.

The road was surrounded on both sides by seemingly endless stretches of land, populated by patches of grass and trees. As he observed, the Drifter noted that the grass was an unnaturally light shade of green, and was more resemblant of the weeds sprouting from the cracks in the road. He also noticed that while many of the trees were burned black and dead, several of them appeared to be younger, with brighter trunks with a faint green tint similar to the grass and more defined branches, and while he wasn't entirely certain, he thought he could see small objects hanging off some branches.

Along with the unnatural looking flora, the Drifter was also certain he could see faint hints of a bronze color deeper behind the trees, but he quickly dismissed it as just a figment of his less-than-clear vision.

What certainly wasn't a figment of less-than-clear vision however, made him stop in his tracks.

It was a large, curved, right-angled, metal structure which lay rusting and derelict just beside the road. Curious, but cautious, the Drifter walked over to get a better look at it, and discovered that on the largest end appeared to be the remnants of what he could only discern to be wire. Now that he was closer, he noticed that it was also somewhat wing-esque in its shape.

Shaking his head at getting sidetracked, the Drifter continued onwards, but once again stopped dead in his tracks.

Focusing as much as possible, the Drifter thought he could see something blocking the road up ahead. Looking back at the metal wing, he made up a hypothesis and set off to confirm its truthfulness.

Approaching with his hunting rifle drawn, and crouched, the Drifter made his way up the road, passing a few piles of scrap known before the Great War as cars. How these things carried entire families across far distances was beyond him. The Drifter began to slow, and he took a good look at the cars. He had seen a few of them before, but they were always a fair distance away from each other, these were close together and formed a semi-circular pattern around the thing blocking the road.

Eyes widening, the Drifter prepared to make a break for the trees. But as he did, a rifle crashed.

The Drifter dived behind the nearest car, barely avoiding the bullet. Grasping his rifle tightly and pressing his back against the car, he waited. One minute passed, then two, then three. The Drifter took a deep breath, and slowly raised his head. Another shot rang out, a second one immediately following it, both barely missing him once more.

 _Shit,_ The Drifter thought. One sniper was bad enough, but two was trouble he was better off avoiding, which in his goddamn curiosity, he didn't.

Reason four.

The Drifter gritted his teeth and held his rifle tightly. If he was to leave this place alive, he needed a plan. Thinking quickly, the Drifter managed to notice two things: the shots had come from the trees, and they were very accomplished shots. He pondered the information carefully, he couldn't do anything without knowing their exact location, but perhaps he could use their own abilities to his advantage. With that, the Drifter came up with a risky strategy.

Crouching as low as possible, the Drifter leaned forward slightly, raising his back and slowly approaching the end of the car. Taking a deep breath, the Drifter raised his back over the cover the car while simultaneously peering from around. Instantly, he felt his backpack nearly tear from his back, but he ignored it completely as he saw two men wielding hunting rifles of their own briefly come out from behind two trees.

Coming back behind the car, the Drifter removed his partially shredded backpack and took a moment to inspect it. He hadn't been carrying much with him, so the backpack was mostly empty aside from the Pork n' Beans, a few .32 caliber rounds, and a few empty bottles. To his relief, the Pork n' Beans was intact save for some grazing by the bullets. Taking it out along with the rounds, the Drifter prepared to enact the second half of his impromptu strategy.

His backpack in his left hand, and the hilt of the hunting rifle in the right, the Drifter shut his eyes. He was shaking. Between stress, temperature, and the return of his thirst and hunger induced fatigue, the cause for it was obvious. But his life depended on the execution of his next move, and he couldn't afford to shake.

And so the Drifter allowed himself to go a little ways down memory lane.

" _Take deep breaths, focus on your weapon and your enemy,"_ said a raspy voice he refused to name. Following the instructions, the Drifter took several deep breaths, all the while focusing on his rifle, the hilts old, wooden texture and how it felt in his hand. He focused on the snipers in the trees, how they were quick on pulling the triggers, but were slower in retreating behind the cover of the trees.

The Drifter opened his eyes, and he drew back his left arm.

" _If you aren't completely there during a firefight, then you're as likely to survive as a brahmin amidst a pack of Bloodpelts,"_ the nameless voice said as the Drifter threw the backpack out from the cover of the car.

Before the backpack was even completely out of cover, it was torn to shreds by the practically simultaneous gunfire of two hunting rifles. But with their attention on the bag, they weren't quick enough to react to the now visible Drifter, who promptly aimed at the closer of the two, and pulled the trigger.

* * *

One of the sniper's' eyes widened in shock at the realization that they had shot a backpack, not a man. It was then that the sniper heard the too-distant firing of a rifle, and quickly looked to his partner. He had turned just in time to watch as his partner was knocked back, his chest caving in and his shirt turning red. Falling to the ground with a thud and his rifle slipping from a faint grasp.

Eyes staring glassily at the sky, the sniper's partner lay unmoving.

Shock and rage, pierced through the sniper. They had come so far, escaped from that hell and its people who claimed ownership of their lives, they talked so long about how once they made it to safety they could reclaim what they once had, live their own lives again, even if it would take killing others. Yet here he laid, shot dead by some random wastelander with a rifle that looked like it was about to break.

Without a second thought, or another round into the rifle, the sniper attempted to raise it.

He neglected to consider the wastelander's own speed with a rifle.

* * *

After the first man went down, the Drifter quickly grabbed the bolt of the rifle and pulled pack, expelling an empty round and quickly shoving another in. By the time the second man had raised his weapon, the Drifter had already fired, and smiled slightly at the sight of the bullet tearing into his skull and coming out the other side, exposing blood, bone, and gray matter to the air.

A long silence passed, the Drifter sat behind the car, waiting to see if anymore showed up.

No one did.

The Drifter sighed in relief, then smiled, then chuckled softly. He slumped against the car, shaking again. As the adrenaline weared off, the young man inspected his rifle and frowned. The bolt wouldn't move when he tried pulling it, and when he pulled harder, it broke off. The hunting rifle was useless now.

Letting it fall to the ground, the Drifter reached over for the Pork n' Beans and the spare .32 rounds. Pocketing the rounds, he stood up, took one last look around, and walked to the bodies, eating a few bites of pork as he did.

He crouched next to the first sniper, and promptly picked up the man's hunting rifle. It wasn't in much better condition than the Drifter's, but it certainly wasn't held together entirely with tape. Holstering the new rifle, the young man inspected the sniper.

The man was older than him, but not middle-aged, with a full head of blonde hair and a full beard. His eyes were glassy, empty as they stared upward. Taking a look at his torso, the Drifter could see the point where the bullet had entered his chest. The wound was still bleeding, and the blood stained the man's torn shirt. Following the spreading blood towards the man's arm, the Drifter raised a concerned eyebrow at the rag tied around the man's arm.

Instant fear gripped the Drifter. These men couldn't be what he now thought they were, they couldn't. With a hesitant hand, the young man grasped the rag, unwrapped it, and pulled.

He couldn't breath.

A scar that had once been a burn was branded onto the man's shoulder. The scar depicted six lines arranged in a circle around a capital 'A'.

The Drifter stumbled backwards, dropping the Pork n' Beans. His heart was racing, his breathing rapid, his mind unable to completely focus on the information he had just learned. Rushing to the other man, the Drifter tore off the man's sleeve.

Another brand.

His vision went white, his ears rang, his head began to ache, his fists were clenching and unclenching violently.

" _They shot at you, killing them was the natural decision,"_ the voice said.

Despite the logic the Drifter knew was behind its words, they were disregarded and quickly silenced by the torrent of thoughts and emotions surging in his head. He had killed escaped slaves, he had killed **their** escaped slaves, he had killed possible **survivors**.

He froze. Suddenly he felt a strange, warm sensation in his lower abdomen, than pain. The Drifter touched the area and felt something wet. Raising his hand, he saw that his entire palm was covered in blood. Confused, the Drifter looked back.

The man's upper body was barely off the ground. Blood trickled down from his lips, and his eyes were bloodshot. In his weak hand, he grasped a small .32 pistol which he had managed to draw from the back of his pants. The faintest hint of a satisfied smile flashed across his trembling lips before his head fell back.

The Drifter's entire mind went blank. No voice, no emotions, no horrible memories, nothing.

Thoughtlessly, he took a step forward and subsequently fell to the ground. He couldn't feel anything, so he kept moving in a half-stumble, half-crawl. He could feel the faint sensation of blood gushing onto the hand he had clamped onto the wound with every movement.

By the time he finally collapsed, he had made it back to the road, promptly collapsing onto and rolling off the scrap pile that was the car.

The Drifter stared through half lidded eyes at the cloudy, grey sky. Strangely enough, before he closed his eyes, he was able to form a couple coherent thoughts.

The first was disappointment that he wouldn't be able to find what he was looking for like the stranger hoped he would. The second was in the form of the voice.

" _You didn't ensure that your enemy was actually dead, dumbass,"_ it stated in a tone that was not nearly as angry that it should have been.

Reason five.

 **(Author's Note)**

So, after looking through the reviews I got for the first two chapters, the general consensus was that the prologue lacked substance, and I should be working on bettering the spacing between dialogue, and the consistency of my tenses.

Hopefully I was able to improve on the tense consistency, we'll see about the dialogue spacing in the next chapter.

As for the prologue, I'll probably redo or remove it sometime in the future if I have the time.

Once again if you have any thoughts, or feedback, they'd be greatly appreciated.


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